


Awake

by pine_storm_season



Series: loosely canon writings [6]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: (implied but its there), Gen, Trauma, bc it's not fluff and i wouldn't really consider it angst, but then What Is It, okay gonna be honest i do not know what else to tag this as, okay technically tubbo's there too but he doesn't appear so i'm not tagging him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pine_storm_season/pseuds/pine_storm_season
Summary: michael is awake at three am and waits for the house to settle down again. that is,, literally it lmao
Relationships: Ranboo & Michael
Series: loosely canon writings [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191365
Comments: 7
Kudos: 191





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> hyperfixation brain go brrrr
> 
> warnings: none that i can think of, but it mentions trauma and nightmares quite a bit, so there's that

His family was not a very typical one, Michael knew. Not that he'd ever met other families, but in the books his dad read to him, families were not often a baby zombie piglin, a teenager, and another teenager. For instance, usually there was a woman involved somewhere.

For another thing, typically the babies were the ones who woke at night crying, not the parents. But Michael didn't mind too much; after Father went back to sleep, Dad would come check on him and make sure he was okay too.

Tonight was one of those nights. But his chicken was asleep under the chair so he couldn’t pet her like usual, and his dog stuffie was all the way under his bed where he couldn’t reach it, and so he didn't want to just stay in his room and rock back and forth and wait for his dad to come up the ladder and check on him.

He crept across the room and knelt down next to the armchair, leaning his head under to look at Snowy asleep on one of the chair’s supports. “Hey, Snowy,” he whispered, reaching out and stroking her soft white chest feathers. “G’morning. Night. Wha’ever.”

Snowy did not react. Chickens were very deep sleepers, Dad had told him.

He stood up, rubbing at the spot where his right eye should be, and crept over to the windows. The moon was low over the sea, shining white flecks of light over the waves, and Michael squinted in concentration. Maybe…three in the morning? Later than usual, then. Usually Father woke up before midnight. Or Dad would have slunk out of the house with blank eyes, and then Father would have to handle himself, but those nights Michael would just pull Snowy into his lap and stroke her until the house was quiet again.

Dad was home tonight, though. Michael could hear him talking quietly to Father. If he crept close to the ladder, he could just make out what they were saying.

“—it’s okay, you’re not there, Tubbo, it's okay. He’s dead, he's dead, he's not gonna hurt you ever again—”

Michael shook his head back and forth and crept back to his bed, rocking himself back and forth slowly. His ear flipped inside out when he shook his head again, and he snorted and reached up to fix it.

Distantly, he could hear Father crying downstairs. He pulled his blanket over his head and hummed softly in the back of his throat to drown out the sound.

He could also hear Dad talking, his voice comforting and low like when Michael had a nightmare and slunk downstairs. He hummed slightly louder, rocking himself back and forth faster.

“Effie Effie Effie Effie Effie,” Michael mumbled, wishing he had his stuffie. “Effie Effie Effie.”

He pulled the blanket off his head and crawled under his bed, grabbing his stuffie with some difficulty. His shoulder banged into the bedframe and he yelped quietly, sticking his hand in his mouth to muffle it. With his other hand, he clutched the small ratty grey stuffie against his chest and crawled back out from under the bed.

“Effie,” he mumbled again, pressing the soft grey fluff against his face. Then he sneezed, shaking his head back and forth. Underneath his bed was dusty.

Father had been surprised that zombie piglins could be allergic to dust, since they were only sort of alive, but Dad had scolded him for saying that. Michael didn't see it as an insulting thing, though, and he said that. It was true, anyway, and Michael was of the opinion that the world would be a simpler place if everyone just said what they thought, anyway. Then there wouldn't be situations like three weeks ago, where Dad trailed Philza and two others—including a piglin like him! But more alive—to their home, and just hovered anxiously while the piglin and Philza questioned Father.

He’d watched from the window, tense—because he could sense that Dad and Father were tense, even if it wasn't nearly as clear as back when he was in the nether—until Dad and the others had left through the speed tunnel, and Father had gone back inside and sighed so loud Michael could hear it through the whole house.

He’d slunk down the ladder and curled up in Father’s lap, resting his head against Father’s chest and playing with his fingers, until Dad had come home. Father’s trembling had slowly tapered off, but he didn't relax fully until Dad returned, hours later.

Michael stroked the soft, light grey stuffie and hummed softly in the back of his throat. He could still hear Dad and Father talking downstairs, and hoped Father would manage to fall back asleep soon. He knew that not getting enough sleep wasn’t good for people; he’d overheard Dad whispering fiercely to Father about something called _enderwalk_ and how terrifying it was, how sometimes even when he stayed himself he didn't manage to sleep all night from fear it would happen.

Later on, he’d asked if people could stay up all night and be fine. Dad had laughed and shaken his head, and told Michael to not get any ideas, which he thought was a strange expression even if he now understood what it meant. He could feel Dad’s concern and anxiety, though, and hugged him extra-tight.

He didn't think they knew he could sense their emotions. It didn't seem to be an everyone thing, just a zombie piglin one; back in the nether, he could sense everyone in a nearby area and tell intricately what they were feeling. But here, with Dad and Father, he only got general impressions. Stuff like _stress_ and _love_ and _grief_.

He wondered if usual families had a constant tint of stress and anxiety in the air. Probably not, he decided. In none of the books had parents woken up in the middle of the night crying, or parents leaving with blank eyes, or nightmares so vivid sometimes Michael woke up from them shaken before he realized it wasn't his own.

That’s how he learned about a horned man in a suit on a blackstone platform, talking with a voice that echoed. That's how he learned about a small room made of obsidian that dripped purple stickiness down the walls and was covered in stained, hastily-scribbled notes. That's how he learned about a man with a mask that featured in both his parents’ nightmares.

That's how he learned about a boy with a red and white shirt and a cocky grin that both of them loved.

Michael tilted his head and decided the past-tense was accurate. Any nightmares about that boy had them waking up horribly, crushingly sad. Father would cry, and Dad wouldn’t, but he’d do that thing where he goes all distant and talks all high-pitched and strained until he stops being as sad.

He had never asked about the boy. He knew, instinctively, that both of them would break down upon being asked.

Michael loved them very much, but sometimes he wished they were just a little quieter with what they were feeling. One time a visitor had said the words _Schlatt administration_ and Father had flinched so hard he nearly dropped what he was holding and radiated panic so thickly that Michael had to hide in Jack Manifold’s house and pet the fox until they both calmed down.

Sometimes he was unhappy they couldn't sense his emotions like he could sense theirs, like the time when he accidentally got stuck in a heavy-lidded wooden chest and couldn’t quite tell whether he was in the nether or home, but most of the time he was glad. They were already so stressed, he didn't want to make it worse for them.

The ladder creaked and Michael startled, gaze flying to the trapdoor. Once he’d asked Dad why it was called that, and Dad said because they were good for making traps, and then clarified that that was a joke and that he didn't actually know why.

Dad’s head peeked above the floor, and he met Michael’s eyes for a split second before flicking his gaze somewhere to the left.

“Hey, buddy,” he said softly. “Awake again?”

He nodded, clutching Effie closer to his chest and pressing his snout into the soft fluff. “Wha’s Father upset about? ‘Nother nightmare?”

Dad nodded, a small, sad smile on his face. “Another nightmare,” he said. “Did you have a nightmare too?”

Michael shook his head as Dad pulled himself all the way up the ladder and closed the trapdoor behind himself. “Got woken up by Father,” he said simply.

Dad winced. “I’m sorry about that. We try to talk quietly, was it still too loud?”

Michael shrugged. He didn’t want to say that he could sense their emotions. Back in the nether, none of them ever minded it—although it could get hard when someone hurt one and everyone else within range got angry and fed off each other’s fury in a painfully overwhelming loop, and Michael was trapped in a small dark space with no one—but he wasn’t sure about people, since they couldn’t feel each other’s emotions like zombie piglins could.

Dad took the shrug as a yes, and a wave of defeat washed off him.

“I'm sorry, Michael,” he said quietly. “Would—would it help to go stay with Foolish, or Puffy, or Jack Manifold? That way we won’t wake you up.”

Michael tilted his head to the side, considering. He couldn’t sense anyone else’s emotions, but he doubted he would be far away enough for Dad’s and Father’s to not affect him, and besides, there wasn’t a setup for Snowy in anyone else's house.

He shook his head. “Wanna stay here.”

Dad nodded, looking tired. One hand came up to rub at the streaky scars down his face, but it jerked away like he’d been burned when he realized. He moved to crouch down next to Michael’s bed instead, offering him a soft, tired smile.

Michael leaned sideways into him, and Dad wrapped an arm around him.

“Hey, bud,” he murmured, and let go to sit beside him. He pulled Michael into his lap and rocked him back and forth gently, rubbing his thumb at the spot behind Michael’s good ear.

He hummed and leaned into it, listening to Dad’s heartbeat. It was soothing, slow and calm, and he found his eyes slipping closed now that peacefulness filled the air instead of fear.

“Goodnight, Michael,” Dad whispered, and laid him back down on his bed, tucking the soft yellow covers over him. “Love you.”

Michael made a little thrumming happy noise in his throat. “G’night,” he mumbled back. “Love you too.”

The trapdoor closed with a quiet thump, and then he was asleep.


End file.
